From Asal to Panem
by Ashkimo
Summary: Zara la Mer, a refugee froma fire-ravaged Australia is sent to live in Panem - but what District will she be sent to and what will become of her? Read to find out and please review!
1. A Country In Ruins

I've never been in a hovercraft departure area; somehow, I expected it to be somewhat more luxurious than this. Row upon row of dilapidated plastic seating fill most of the room, with restrooms at one end. One wall is really a rather large, grimy window that looks out onto the tarmac, with the only other decoration faded old posters advertising aeroplane flights to far-off countries that no longer exist. There's only about twenty of us here; somehow I thought there'd be more. Most of them look like they're my age - about 16 years old – though some are younger. Every one of us is half-starved and bedraggled; all of us are scared. Why? We're being taken from the crumbling ruins of our homeland, once called Australia but now known as Asal, to live in the much-feared nation of Panem.

***

Much like the downfall of North America, Australia was destroyed by natural disaster – mostly drought, but also horrible forest-fires and storms. As the amount of usable land rapidly declined, the surviving population migrated south, to areas that were once known as Victoria and New South Wales, but were now called "Zones". Our capital city and government now resided where Victoria's capital city Melbourne was – though it was now called Citadel. Having been born just outside of what was Melbourne, I lived in Zone Two – one of the better of the eight liveable zones, where most of us lived above the poverty line and the landscape still had a few national parks and clean rivers. Like Panem, each of the Zones is responsible for one or more principal industries; in Zone Two we were responsible for the breeding of animals and the growing of natural fibre for clothing. Two other uninhabitable zones also exist; they bus the unfortunate workers in and out of them daily. Zones Nine and Ten are where the major factories and mines are, but the pollution is so dreadful that you really can't stay there for more than 12 hours at a time.

I was the youngest of three children; my father was a mechanic who worked on one of the cotton farms and my mother a librarian at the Zone Two Secondary College. Until the Devastating Thursday bushfires, we lived in a moderately-sized house with a tiny backyard. My siblings and I even had two pet canaries, Chimes and Harmony, who would sing beautiful, unearthly tunes as the sun rose and set. Then the fires came – started by a wayward spark floating from a chimney – they razed almost half of the liveable land left, including Zones Two, Three, Four and Six. Fortunately for me, I can run like the wind, and I managed to escape to the safety of an old cave my siblings and I used to play in as children. When I went back to see what was left of my life, there was nothing but charcoal and ashes. All I have left of my family is a singed sketch drawn by my older sister, Amelie, and my parents' charred wedding bands, family heirlooms that had been passed down through the generations.

***

I suddenly catch my reflection in the window, and sigh – my dark, wavy hair is a matted mess, my skin pale with eyes hollow and empty. My stomach growls; since I was "rescued" by the Peacekeepers, they've been feeding us on starvation rations. I look around me at my companions; some weep, some talk amongst themselves, some of them are simply struck dumb. Eventually, a Peacekeeper appears and starts herding us onto a battered-looking hovercraft, something that looks very much like it once belonged to the military. They don't even bother giving us safety instructions – we're left to belt ourselves onto the hard plastic seats. Within ten minutes we're in the air, on our way to the fabled (and feared) Panem.

In Asal, we didn't have Hunger Games every year. The closest thing we ever got to those were the bi-annual Survival Trials, where one person aged between 12-19 from each of the eight Zones is sent into the wilderness with nothing but a water bottle, a knife and the clothes on their back; they can withdraw at any time by verbally conceding defeat, upon which a hovercraft returns them home to the shame of their family. The winner receives a large sum of money, and the whole thing is of course televised, though it's not compulsory to watch. Often people volunteer, but sometimes nobody does, so a raffle has to be held to determine competitors. Though you'd think the chance of dying in the Survival Trials is low, many of the contestants do die out there, for conceding defeat is considered a sign of great weakness and brings shame upon the losers' family. The citizens of the Citadel love it, apparently – there's a whole load of stupid traditions tied up with it, but I've never felt compelled to enter. We were comfortable enough with our lives; it's usually those who are desperately poor who enter, in the hopes of winning the prize money to secure their futures.

The silence leaves me wondering what District I'll be sent to; more like than not, they'll assess our skills and abilities to determine where we go. Though we aren't told much about Panem or our other international neighbours, we are told about each of their districts and their specialties. Unlikely I'll be sent to District One (where they make luxury items for the Capitol), District Three (the factories) or District Six (where they make furniture and other homewares), as I'm not particularly skilled with my hands. I don't like animals either, which rules out District Four (fishing), District Seven (animals bred for meat and dairy products). I'm fairly smart, so I could go to District Two (responsible for medicine), District Five (science and mathematics) or District Eight (books and education). I don't think I'd be interested in Districts Nine (weaponry) and Ten (clothing); of course there's Districts Eleven and Twelve, but living there would be so miserable that I'd rather not consider it. I think I'd prefer District Five, or maybe District Seven, though I suppose District Ten would be fine too…

I know that once I arrive in Panem and transported to one of the Districts, they will attempt to place me in a foster home with a local family; if one can't be found (and most likely one won't) then I will be sent to a community home. Though it'd be nice to be placed with a family, the fortunate thing about the community home is that you only have to take one tesserae a year – for yourself – and no more, meaning that the most entries you'll ever have into the Reaping you can have is 14. Then again, depending on the family, I might not have to take the tesserae at all. Still, as an adoptee or foster kid, they'd probably expect me to if tesserae were required – who'd choose to ensure somebody else's child had fewer entries rather than their own?

All of a sudden, I am afraid.


	2. Panem

Somehow, I manage to fall asleep on the hovercraft; it's only the sharp bump of the landing that wakes me from my slumber. I look around me, and see all of the remaining survivors undoing their seatbelts or gathering their meagre possessions. My few things are stored in a worn old backpack I scavenged from the charity bins at the relief centre – a change of clothes, my sister's sketch and a few battered books. Using an old rag, I have buffed my parent's wedding rings as best I can and have strung them around my neck on a thin leather cord.

Another Peacekeeper appears to lead us off of the hovercraft; as I step onto solid land I notice the pale, weak sun above and soft green grass underfoot. Huge mountains lie not too far in the distance, though many large boulders and a few scraggly trees surround us. The structure that dominates the landscape is a huge, grey shed surrounded by a barb-wire fence that must be at least four metres high; it's only when we are surrounded by a team of Peacekeepers that I realise this shed is to be our home, our prison, at least for tonight.

***

We are marched towards the shed, every one of us walking slowly, carefully; the spears, swords and knives carried by the Peacekeepers are very visible and quite ominous. As soon as we are inside the confines of the fence, the gate is shut and locked tight. I look at the girl next to me, a pretty little thing with green eyes and ash-blonde hair; she can't be more than 14 years old. She's shaking like a leaf and her fingers twist the thin silver necklace around her neck.

"Don't worry," I say to her kindly, "We'll only be here a night or two and then we'll be off to our new homes in the Districts. I shouldn't wonder that a pretty young girl such as you gets sent somewhere nice, like District One or Two."

She remains silent, though her eyes widen in horror. Such a shame that my words of comfort have no effect on her; it's clear that even she knows that life in Panem is far different and possibly far worse than life at home.

The huge double-doors to the shed are flung open by two burly Peacekeepers and we are led inside; though the light is dim I can see row upon row of camp beds with small metal lockers next to them. Parts of the shed have been partitioned off and contain unknown things – perhaps restrooms, offices or the Peacekeepers' quarters. A dark-haired Peacekeeper with a ridiculous handlebar moustache marches to the very head of the group and begins speaking in brisk tones.

"Welcome, former Asalians to the prospering nation of Panem; though a land brought to waste lies behind you, may you find new successes here. You are at the National Panem Refugee Allocation Camp, where you will be housed until you are dispatched to a District suited to your abilities. Each of you is to be allocated one of these beds and a locker; later in the day you will be fitted for two new changes of clothing. You will also find in your locker an information package about the nation of Panem, so that you may familiarise yourself with your new country. Any personal items you wish to keep with you must be submitted to our Review Board for approval, with all of your old clothing and such to be destroyed. If you have any questions, you should report to the Refugee Assistance Office, located at the very end of this centre."

His accent is very strange – the vowels sound odd and clipped, the sentences ending as if they were questions – not at all like Asalian speech, with its slightly drawling, twangy sounds. After allowing us a brief moment, he begins calling out our names, to a nametag and be allocated to a bed.

"Emma Wattle…Samuel Harris…Rosa Jacobs…" he says, his ridiculous-sounding accent making their names sound strange. My mind begins to wander, as I watch a lone fly buzz its way around the giant shed we're to call home.

"Zarah la Mer," the Peacekeeper calls, and$ upon I am snapped from my reverie. I wander up to the Peacekeeper, collect my tag and clip it to my tattered jumper, then head to bed number 18, as per the writing on my tag. As I sit down on the flimsy foam mattress, I put my head in my hands and wonder what is to become of me.


End file.
